


Come Fly With Me

by kleine_aster



Series: He Would Never [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Romantic Comedy, Sequel, The One Who Got Away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:25:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a night out in Gotham, Batman and Robi – sorry, Nightwing –  take a trip down memory lane and re-visit their love. Their creepy, creepy love. Follow-up to "He Would Never".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Fly With Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Fandom:** Batman  
>  **Characters:** Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson  
>  **Genre:** Humor, Slash.  
>  **Warnings:** None for this part.  
>  **A/N:** This is a sequel to my other Bruce/Dick fic, "He Would Never". Dick was left pretty sad at the end of that one, which in turn made other people sad, including me, so I've decided to do a follow-up. :) I don't like this one quite as much, but I had this idea and I really wanted to do it.
> 
> And yes, the title is intentionally terrible. XD

"Do you want to stop for a midnight snack?" The Batman suddenly asked, eyes fixed on the road. "My treat." 

In the passenger's seat, Dick Grayson had to grin. A long time ago, when they'd first started out together, he'd always played a game with himself; to see how many cute or uncharacteristic words he would hear Bruce Wayne utter while he was wearing the cowl. Now he could finally cross both "snack" and "treat" off his list, which left him with "humdrum" and "kerfuffle". He was also still holding out for "cucumber", though he wasn't sure how to make that happen.

This had been a good night.

The offer itself made him squirm a little, however. Going for a snack with Batman was a bad idea under any circumstances. First of all, he never ate. He'd just sit there in the diner booth, silently watching, and it automatically made you feel like a gigantic slob, stuffing yourself with french fries and burgers in the face of such brooding restraint. Even if you happened to be a model acrobat in peak physical condition. (Dick knew this was true for everyone; Tim had lamented the same thing.) Then he'd pick up the check, and make you feel even worse.

But there was more to it than that.

It was weird to hang out with people you used to sleep with, but didn't anymore for whatever reason. And in this case, it was even weirder, because the fact that they used to sleep with each other seemed almost surreal now, even though the memories were still vivid in Dick's mind. 

So vivid.

Dick knew he should say no, really say no. Go back to his place, touch himself under the shower, cry into his pillow for a bit, then go to sleep.

So naturally, he said: "Sure!"

The Dark Knight growled in agreement. "Good. I know just the place."

Then, in a maneuver of perfect elegance, he spun the Batmobile off the main road and into the countryside.

Dick had no idea where they were going. After a few miles of bumpy country road, trees, and scared-looking wildlife, he cleared his throat.

"So…this is how people get themselves murdered, right?"

Bruce scoffed. "If I wanted to murder you, Nightwing, I'd consider myself a failure if I hadn't managed it by now."

"I … was kidding."

"So was I."

In a way, this felt nice – driving together, bickering like this was somehow normal and not totally awkward, like this was a different, more innocent time. No Alfred on the intercom, no Tim squeezed between them as a good-natured buffer, no Damian acting entitled about something or other (which, admittedly, all had its own entertainment value), nothing to distract them from each other. Dick surely wasn't complaining. But still; something was off, he could tell. Bruce was being … familiar with him, which was something he'd seemed to have conditioned himself not to be whenever they were alone in a room, or car, or anywhere. It had been like that ever since he'd broken it off. Now, he'd offered dinner, he'd made a joke (or what passed as a joke in his case), and he'd used the word "treat". So something was clearly wrong.

"Seriously, where are we?" Dick peered out of the window, trying to make sense of it. "Are we still in Gotham? Are you driving me out of state? Are we going to a lake house to fight Killer Croc, and you only said 'snack' to soften the blow? What's happening?"

Batman hit him with a brick of silence after that, until he eventually answered, with a hint of sad surprise in his voice: "You really don't remember."

"I – " Dick started, but right then, it came to him when a familiar, time-worn neon sign came into view.

"Holy – !" His mouth flew open. "Are we going to Rita's Roadhouse Diner? That place still _exists_?"

"It does," Bruce told him. The corners of his mouth were slightly turned upwards, which meant Dick recognizing it pleased him on some level.

That had been one of their favorite places to eat, back when he'd been Robin. Well, Dick's, anyway. Batman had usually agreed to take him there, since it was always open, always empty, had a decent set of emergency doors, and you could buy your sideki – _partner_ a milkshake without being seen by anyone. For Dick, it had always been a great event. Since they usually came here at crazy hours, Alfred's diligent meal plan got ignored for a change and everything was upside-down – cake and chocolate for breakfast, eggs and bacon for dinner, burgers in the middle of the night.

It was kind of like when they used to have sex. Once they donned their masks, all bets were off and no rules applied.

"Rita retired," Bruce explained. "But it's actually owned by Wayne Industries now."

"Awww, you bought my favorite burger place?" Dick piped, violating the unspoken 'no awwwing in the Batmobile' rule, but he was too flattered to care.

Bruce became very formal. "Well, it's good property," he said stiffly. "And I built a secret chemistry lab underneath to increase its value."

"Oh! Can we go?"

"Do you have chemicals that need analyzing?"

"Uh. I don't."

"Then; no."

He drove onto the parking lot, which looked exactly the way Dick remembered it: like the loneliest place on earth. There was that old, wooden picnic table and bench where they'd always sat, Dick struggling with a gigantic burger and king-sized milkshake, and Bruce with … nothing.

Good times.

There was light in the windows as they got out of the car. The 'Open'-sign hung from the door. Someone was actually working in there. It was nigh-incredible.

Dick could feel his heart leap in his chest. If he hadn't already experienced time-travel, this was what he'd assumed it'd be like.

Only he wasn't wearing his cheerful Robin colors anymore. He was Nightwing now. Batman, though, was still Batman, as he strode towards the entrance, pushed the door open and …

…held it for him? Like he was some kind of dame?

…well, okay then.

It was strange, but also kinda nice, so Dick thanked him anyway and slipped inside.

It almost seemed like nothing had changed. Dick frowned as he looked around. This had been one of his favorite haunts during his child- and teenhood, probably because he went here with Batman, but now he realized that holy hell this place was depressing. And always had been. Grease-stained walls, pasty linoleum, sickly, flickering neon-lights. 

But it had the same tantalizing scent of surprisingly good food, at least. It seemed a little cleaner, too, and Wayne Industries had obviously enforced a no-smoking policy. Dick only now realized that old Rita, who'd always been a sweet little old lady to him when he was younger, had been kind of a chain-smoking, hard-drinking drifter who'd blow smoke into his face while she pinched his cheeks. But like Bruce had said, she wasn't there anymore. The counter and kitchen were now manned by a group of tired-looking and exceptionally busty women.

Bruce leaned over to him. "All the employees are former Crime Alley prostitutes," he whispered. "I'm also running a rehabilitation program out of here."

"'course you do," Dick whispered back at him.

The staff promptly stopped what they were doing and stared at the two masked men, awestruck, and a little apprehensive, too. But only for a little. They had probably been briefed on not being too surprised when a certain Caped Crusader decided to drop by, or something.

The petite, freckled waitress quickly collected herself and shot up to them. To Dick's experienced eye, she had the worn-out, hollow look of a recovering drug addict, but her smile was genuine. "Hello. My name is Frankie, what can I get you boys?"

"Hello," Bruce retorted gravely. Dick had forgotten how awkward it was to see Batman interact with people, unless they were villains, allies, in mortal peril or Commissioner Gordon. "The gentleman will have - "

Dick nearly did a double take. Did he just … had he just said _'the gentleman will have'?_

Bruce didn't skip a beat. "The Roadhouse Special, with cheddar instead of blue cheese, no pickles, thick-cut fries, salad on the side, and a king-sized vanilla milkshake."

Then he turned to look at Dick with an expression that said _'nailed it'_.

And he had.

"Yeah," all Dick could do was blink. "That's … the gentleman will have that."

Satisfied, Bruce turned towards Frankie again.

"And I'll have … a sprinkled donut," he said morosely. For him, that was a huge concession, plus, Dick could now also claim that he'd heard Batman say 'sprinkled donut'. "And coffee. Please. We'll be outside."

He turned to his former partner. "If that's all right with you."

Outside. Where they'd always sat together. Dick still wasn't sure how to react to this, so he simply made a confused gesture that meant 'Anything you say, man, anything you say'. Bruce seemed to interpret it right.

They collected their order and headed out, over to the bench that Dick remembered liking so much. It was right under a lonesome streetlamp that always tinted it in a golden light against the pitch-dark parking lot. There were moths circling the lamp, there was a fresh, nightly breeze, and the sounds of trees and distant cars. It was as if you were the only two people in the world.

It was …

Come to think of it, it was kinda romantic.

And Bruce either knew that, or he'd taken absolutely nothing from years of escorting dates to romantic comedies.

Bruce and Dick had never gone on a date, back then, of course. They hadn't even kissed, or touched above a friendly squeeze of the shoulder in the Manor. It had all been confined to the Batcave, and even then only if they could be 100% sure that Alfred had gone to bed. It had been their own personal game, a secret beneath a secret. They had lost a lot of sleep that way, but they were used to that. 

And it had been worth it.

Dick quickly realized that he wouldn't be able to eat that enormous pile of food on his plate. Which was a shame, because he'd been up all night and the food smelled delicious. But he was too nervous to feel hunger. He felt silly and weird and childish drinking from a huge milkshake and eating a meal that had been his favorite when he'd still been in high school. This whole situation, sitting across Batm- Bruce, it was too … too much. 

He also was suddenly, stupidly obsessed with the question whether his hair looked good tonight, or if he should go to the bathroom to fix it; and he hated himself a little for that.

So, he merely nibbled on a few fries. Which was nothing compared to the cold disregard that Bruce paid to his donut. At least he was sipping his steaming coffee.

"So, Rita's retired, huh?" Dick asked. He wasn't sure what else to say; dinner conversation with Batman was hard.

"Well, technically." Bruce picked up the salt and sugar dispensers, gave them a quick examination and put them down again. "She was disintegrated by a laser blast during the last Brainiac Invasion; it _is_ Gotham, after all."

Dick went pale. "That's…that's horrible."

Bruce shot him a look that was almost concerned. "I know. I wasn't going to mention that part, before you asked. But I am told it's a mostly painless way to die, if that helps."

"It's…well…I guess that's…something."

"Sorry," Bruce said. "Let's talk about something more pleasant."

Then he proceeded to say nothing.

Because if there was one thing that Batman wasn't good at, it was talking about something more pleasant.

They carried on in silence until Dick couldn't take it anymore. He took a long, long sip from his milkshake, swallowed, and asked: "Batman?"

"Nightwing?"

"That mission we went on tonight. That mission that you said you really needed my help for."

"Yes?"

"We bugged a downtown nightclub, and then beat up like three people."

"Yes."

"You needed no help whatsoever for that."

Bruce made no attempt to deny it. He didn't reply at all. He simply sat there, with that impenetrable look on his face, and let Dick ramble on, while Dick's face felt like it was about to go up in flames.

"And now you took me here, in the middle of the night, to my favorite place, ordered my favorite dish, and I'm … starting to think that this was the whole reason you asked me to come, and – "

He put his milkshake down with an audible 'thump'.

"Is this a date? Are we … is this your way to take me on a date?"

He stared at the man across him, waiting for a word, any word. His heart was hammering in his chest. He knew, if Bruce laughed now at him now, or flat-out said 'No', he'd drop dead right there. 

Well; he'd had a good run.

But Bruce did neither of these things. He took a very tentative – unreasonably tentative – sip from his coffee, and then said in typically cryptic Batman fashion:

"I heard your song on the radio the other day."

"My -" Dick coughed. In his current state – the not-sure-if-on-date-with-Batman-state – he didn't even know what Bruce was talking about. Had some supervillain drugged and coerced him into recording a disco track without his knowledge? Because that was totally something that'd happen to him.

"My what?"

It seemed unlikely, but it looked as if Bruce was attempting to hold back a smile. "You're not telling me you don't remember your Top 40 single 'Come Fly With Me' and it's B-side, 'Teenage Love Is Not A Crime'?"

"Aah!" 

Dick's face met his palms as he remembered that shameful chapter of his time as Robin. He must have been about eighteen or something. Superman was putting together a benefit album, and since it turned out that Robin was testing off the charts with old ladies, teenage girls and gay fellas, he'd asked Dick if he had a good singing voice, and Dick had said 'No', and then Superman had said 'We'll do it anyway', and if the Man Of Steel said that, you didn't refuse. So Dick had recorded those two numbers. There'd also been some plans for a duet with Batman, but not even Superman had dared to approach the Dark Knight with that idea.

Nevermind that a duet would have been oddly fitting, since by that point, and Batman and Robin were making sweet, sweet love to each other behind closed doors, and nobody could know.

He'd tried so hard to forget that. Not the sweet, sweet love thing. The fact that those two songs existed.

"Why would they play that on the radio?" He moaned through his fingers. "Why would _anyone_ play that _anywhere_?"

"Apparently, the label put out a new remix not long ago," Bruce informed him dryly. "I heard it. It was … something."

"Krypton Records is still a thing?!" Dick cocked his eyebrow. "And … I thought you hated that whole album idea. Did you…did you even buy my single back when it came out?"

Bruce gave him a very stern look, which was way more erotic than he probably realized. "I bought 3000 of them," he said, indignant. "It was for a good cause. I gave them to orphaned children."

"Those poor orphans."

"Not at all. They loved it. Kids always liked you. They were scared of me, but they always liked you."

"Did _you_ like it?" Dick asked, before he could punch himself in the mouth to prevent the words from coming out. 

He wanted to ask if Bruce had kept one for himself. But he didn't dare. He suddenly felt very shy about the whole thing. Maybe he could scour Bruce's record collection next time he was at the Manor.

Bruce said nothing for a while. And then: "That love song. 'Come Fly With Me'. That song was about me."

Dick nearly knocked over his milkshake, while his face reached a whole new level of red. 

"That's … not … true," he lied, terribly. 

"Interesting." Bruce was observing him with the ghost of a weary smile. "You've always excelled at everything. But lying is the one thing you've never fully mastered."

Dick wasn't even sure if he was being made fun of right now, or not. If he was: _not cool._

"I…I didn't even write it!" He stammered. "That … that coked-up producer wrote it, the one you busted for drug possession right after I finished recording! Remember?"

"He wrote the music, not the lyrics," Bruce shot back. Damn his impeccable memory, which enabled him to remember Dick's favorite food order as well as the most embarrassing details from his past. 

"You bragged to me about how he let you pen your own lyrics. And besides, there were way too many circus metaphors in it. You should have cut back on those."

"Okay, you know what?! Those lyrics were a about a _girl_!" Dick insisted hopelessly. "Because … a lot of girls have shiny black hair, and … and dreamy blue eyes, and manly … chiseled chins…" 

He trailed off. Who was he kidding. 

He'd written that moony, sappy mess right in the throes of their complicated relationship, and he'd poured all his feelings into it, feelings that had never quite subsided, and now Bruce had to drag him out here and dig all of this out because …

Because …

"Why?" He asked quietly. "Why did you have to … why?"

Bruce took his sweet time to reply, during which it was impossible to tell what went on behind that cowl.

"Well, as a piece of art, it's terrible," He then said, and Dick came close to crying into his fries. 

Bruce's voice became quieter as he went on: "But you're the only person to ever do something like that. Nobody ever wrote a song for me. And when I listened to it – " 

He lowered his gaze. "I think I never told you how much I regret – "

His head shot up as Dick slammed his hand on the table and snapped: " _Don't_."

Bruce looked at him as he always did in such situations; completely incredulous that anyone would ever dare interrupt him.

He also looked vaguely hurt.

Dick's hand was trembling. Not this again. 

All these years, Bruce had barely ever acknowledged that their…their _thing_ had even existed. And whenever he did, he'd treated it as something terrible that had happened. Like some sort of horrific accident that nobody could ever talk about.

Dick had wondered for a long while why that was. Of course, Bruce had been embarrassed about being attracted to a teenager – 

_No. In love. He was in love with me._

– but that was only part of it.

The real point was, that that moment, the moment they had first kissed, and … then done a bunch of other stuff, had been Bruce, Batman, at his most selfish.

Because for once, it hadn't been about being good. Or about doing the right thing. It had been about doing something reckless because he wanted to. It had been about lust. Excitement. Greed. 

And that was the thing that Bruce couldn't live with. 

But, nope. Not tonight. Dick wouldn't let him do it. If Bruce wanted to take him on some late-night nostalgia trip, fine, but if it meant he'd be dragged screaming through a field of sharp-edged, painful memories – 

"Don't say it. Don't say, again, how much you _regret_ ever sleeping with me. Because I don't know if you know, _Bruce_ – oh, don't make that face, there's nobody here! – but that's a _terrible_ thing to say to someone's face!"

Bruce's eyes narrowed as Dick rose to his feet, leaning over to vomit out those words he'd been keeping to himself, for the sake of _peace_ , and _friendship_ , and whatever their relationship was now.

"You were _all over me_. I was all over you. And yeah, it was stupid, and yeah, it turned out horribly, and yeah, I followed you around like a lovesick puppy until you kicked me out, and it _hurt_ , but don't go and make something _good_ into something _bad_ , because it wasn't and you know it. Don't pretend you didn't love every second of me, back there in that car of yours, riding you like a – "

"Are you _finished_?" Bruce cut in with a lethal glare.

"No!" He'd been the one who'd started it, and now he'd hear him out. "Riding you like a – "

Bruce raised his voice only a little, but it would've been enough to shut anybody up.

"I was going to say," he barked, "That I _regret_ ending it like I did."

"Wh – "

Dick froze, angry finger still in the air and everything.

"I regret ending it at all. I regret it every day." Bruce looked as if he violently hated saying it, which meant he was being very sincere. "Because I _miss_ it!"

"…"

"…"

"I'm … uh. I'm gonna go sit back down now."

Bruce looked tormented. "Please do."

Dick had no feeling in his legs. He felt like he was floating; completely with a bad case of vertigo.

His hands were shaking and cold when he put them around his milkshake. You had to always tread carefully when it came to Bruce. It could be one of those traps that he laid out without even knowing he was doing it. It was a high-wire act. 

"What does it mean?" He asked cautiously. 

"It means." Bruce wasn't so much talking as the words were escaping from between his teeth. Despite that, he looked awfully handsome in the light of that lamp, even with only a third of his face visible.

"It means you're not mistaken about what this is."


End file.
